Cigar smoke drifted lazily toward the bleak, barely illuminated ceiling of the warehouse, gathering beneath the rafters before slowly disappearing into the darkness. The distant hum of traffic was little more than a vibration through the walls, muffled by layers of concrete and steel. Above them, a single industrial light swung gently from its chain, casting long shadows across the empty space each time it passed.
Quentin paid it no attention.
Neither did the man sitting across from him.
The stranger looked as though he had spent years living in places exactly like this. His clothes were worn and stained, his boots caked with grime, and his short, curly blond hair was badly in need of a wash. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his appearance at first glance. Yet beneath the neglect, Quentin could see the definition in his arms and shoulders. The man possessed the lean, functional strength of someone accustomed to surviving without comfort.
More importantly, Quentin could feel the violence beneath the surface.
It wasn't difficult to recognize. Violence left its own imprint on people, especially those who had spent years making it a part of themselves. Quentin had employed plenty of violent men over the years, and he wasn't exactly innocent of the practice himself. What mattered wasn't whether someone could hurt another person.
What mattered was whether they could control themselves afterward.
Quentin took the cigar from his mouth and examined the man across from him through the haze of smoke.
"Would you rather I call you Otis," he asked, "or would you prefer your alias? Rat Catcher has a certain ring to it."
The man shrugged, "Either is fine. Otis, if you prefer."
A faint smirk touched Quentin's lips.
"Very well, Otis. Tell me something. Why do you want to join the Underpass?"
For a moment, Otis said nothing.
Then a faint scratching sound came from somewhere beneath the warehouse shelving.
A rat emerged from the darkness.
It hesitated when it reached the open floor, its tiny nose twitching as it searched the unfamiliar air. Otis immediately noticed it. He leaned down without hesitation and scooped the animal into his hands before it could disappear between the crates.
The rat seemed remarkably comfortable in his grasp.
"When I was in Blackgate," Otis began, gently stroking its filthy fur with one finger, "I started hearing about a growing group of homeless people operating throughout Gotham."
Quentin watched him carefully.
"I didn't believe it at first. Thought it was just another prison rumor. You know how that place is. Everybody has a story, everybody knows a guy who knows a guy." Otis glanced down at the rat. "But the more I heard about them, the more interested I became."
"And why was that?"
Quentin brought the cigar back to his lips and took another slow draw, allowing the silence to stretch while he waited for an answer.
Otis smiled faintly, "I used to be an actual rat catcher, you know."
Quentin raised an eyebrow.
"That so?"
"Yeah." Otis gave a quiet laugh. "Not exactly glamorous work. Spent most of my time crawling through Gotham's sewers, clearing infestations for landlords who never wanted to pay me on time. Rats, bugs, whatever people didn't want living in their buildings."
His expression changed as he remembered.
"Then I started realizing I could do more with what I had."
He released the rat onto his shoulder, where it settled comfortably against his neck.
"While I was in Blackgate, I made a lot of connections. Guards who could be bribed. Inmates who needed things moved. People who needed messages delivered without anyone knowing where they came from. I learned how to get things in and out of places they weren't supposed to be."
His eyes lifted toward Quentin, "Then I heard about the Underpass."
Otis's smile widened.
"And the first thing I thought was…" He paused, almost embarrassed by the admission, "Those are my people."
The words lingered in the warehouse. Quentin said nothing. Instead, he studied Otis.
There was no obvious deception in the man's posture or voice. Quentin had spent enough time around liars to recognize the small inconsistencies people rarely realized they displayed when inventing a story. Otis wasn't showing them.
He believed what he was saying.
Perhaps there was more beneath it, something he wasn't willing to admit aloud, but the core of it was genuine.
He wanted somewhere to belong.
Quentin could see it clearly now. The loneliness ran deep, buried beneath years of isolation, resentment, and violence. It had hardened into something dangerously close to madness, the kind that came from being alone for too long and eventually convincing yourself that the world had abandoned you first.
Yes he saw everything mixed into Otis's aura. The picture it painted Quentin acknowledged was a masterpiece.
The Underpass offered something Gotham rarely gave men like Otis.
Purpose, "You understand that I have concerns," Quentin said eventually.
Otis nodded.
"Loyalty being one of them."
Quentin leaned back in his chair, letting the cigar rest between his fingers.
"The Underpass survives because everyone understands the rules. You don't steal from our people. You don't expose our operations. You don't hurt those under our protection. You don't betray the organization because you think you're clever enough to get away with it."
His eyes hardened, "I can tolerate violence. I can tolerate greed. I can even tolerate stupidity to a certain degree."
The faint smile returned.
"But betrayal is different."
Otis swallowed before answering.
"You can trust me, sir."
Quentin studied him for another long moment.
Then he smiled, "Good."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees.
"Because I have one task for you."
Otis's attention sharpened immediately.
"If you succeed, you can join us. After that, we'll discuss where you should be stationed. Something tells me you'd be rather comfortable working beneath Gotham."
Otis grinned.
"The sewers?"
"I was thinking the same thing."
The rat on Otis's shoulder shifted as though in agreement. Quentin chuckled softly before his expression became serious again.
"But we'll discuss that later. First, you need to prove yourself."
"What do you want me to do?"
Quentin took another slow puff from his cigar, the ember glowing brightly in the darkness.
"Someone tried to kill me recently."
Otis's expression changed.
"I know the person responsible is connected to Gotham. I have a fairly good idea who ordered it, but suspicion isn't enough. I need confirmation before I make a move."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping.
"Find out who did it, Otis."
For several seconds, the only sound in the warehouse was the distant traffic beyond the walls and the soft creak of the swinging light overhead.
Then Otis smiled, "I can do that."
Quentin returned the smile, "I was hoping you'd say that."
***
Dre's lips were pressed into a permanent frown, or at least that was how it felt lately. Every time he thought they had finally cornered Brickwell, the bastard found another way to slip through their fingers.
Brickwell had proven far more difficult to deal with than Dre had initially expected. Since the first attack, he had struck the Underpass twice more, each assault carefully planned and carried out by men who knew exactly how to disappear before anyone could respond. Both times, Brickwell's people had used drive-by tactics, hitting Underpass positions before retreating into the maze of streets and abandoned buildings that made the Glades such a perfect hunting ground.
Dre had tried to retaliate.
That was when Brickwell revealed the trick that had made him so difficult to touch.
The moment Dre's people began moving against one of Brickwell's known locations, the bastard would call the police himself. By the time the Underpass arrived, sirens would already be approaching, forcing Dre's people to pull back or risk bringing an entirely different kind of attention down on themselves. Brickwell had turned the police into his personal shield, hiding behind them whenever the Underpass came knocking.
Dre hated to admit it, but the man was clever.
A fucking weasel, but a clever one.
"We're going to hit him big tonight," Dre said.
The men gathered around him exchanged glances. They were standing inside one of the Underpass's secured buildings, weapons and equipment spread across a table while several others waited near the doors. The mood was tense, but there was something else beneath it now.
Anticipation.
One of the men looked toward Dre. "We are, sir. You think Brickwell will actually be there?"
Dre's frown finally broke into a slow, confident smirk.
"Of course he will."
He leaned against the edge of the table, folding his arms across his chest.
"Brickwell calls himself the mayor of the Glades, doesn't he?"
The men nodded.
"Then tonight, the mayor gets to protect his office."
Dre's smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
"We've spent enough time chasing that bastard through the streets. Tonight we make him fight us."
He looked around the room, making sure every man had his attention.
"And when he does, I don't care who spots him. Put two in his head."